That same night, Roman’s steps rattled down his capital’s cobbled streets. Drunk soldiers poured into the brothels to waste away their newfound money and fame From their calloused hands to the gentle fingers of the prostitutes, to the greedy palms of the owners, and back to the czar in the form of taxes. War truly changed nothing.

No one paid attention to the middle-aged man limping down the street wearing a mud-stained cloak. As long as he walked with intent and he didn’t appear like he had anything of value, no one would stop him. From the side, he walked with the famous determination of a veteran looking to find an alehouse cheap enough to get hammered in.

The czar hopped over two rats nibbling over food already eaten twice. The hood on his head protected him better than a crown would. Gold is strength in the keep but a death sentence in the city. No one knew what he looked like in this part of the capital, but even if a thug decided he seemed familiar to him, he’d be in a lot of trouble. People had been killed for a lot less in the past than looking like the czar.

He followed the streets like a maze. Starting from the passage, his brother used to leave the keep and go whoring, to the place where she lived. He wondered if it was going to be another brothel that he’d find at the end of the man’s instructions. Whether he’d see the love of his life lying with another man for a coin.

Cobbled streets turned to mud, and not soldiers but farm animals kept the place lively. One last left turn, then the third house on the left, that’s what he told him.

He reached a rotten wooden fence and a single lit window in the house behind it. Too far away to see anything, Roman slowly unbuckled the chain that held the door closed and entered. Like a moth drawn to the light, he stepped over a fork, tip-toeing to the window. He was sneaking in like a thief as if every inch of this land didn’t belong to him. But if he was caught here, he’d be dealt with like any other trespasser before he could even utter he was the czar.

The window was at the height of his chest. He pressed himself to the wall, creeping towards the light. Inside he saw a small hearth and two young boys no older than his own son playing around it. Then he saw her. She was running after the children in a long white gown that had long turned yellow. Hair tied in a messy braid, a strand of white hair in the middle of it like lightning.

Time had passed, indeed.